


Those Forgotten Roads

by GetYourHeartOn2413



Category: Batfamily - Fandom, Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Curse Breaking, Dark Magic, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 08:51:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17362874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GetYourHeartOn2413/pseuds/GetYourHeartOn2413
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a dark curse and, with it, came a choice which broke your heart. And once upon a time, you'd loved hopefully and you'd lost terribly, leaving you with a soul that aches beyond comprehension.But you don't give in. You wait and you fight and you search, and you love, still, wholly and fervently and oh so deeply, until you come to the crossroads you knew you'd have to face eventually.And this is where you find him.What will happen now?





	1. Into the Lion's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I just got this random idea and I wanted to write it. Ta-da! Time for some pain.
> 
> Warning: Angst. Swearing.

You think this might be a mistake.

That big, therapist-visiting, kind.

The kind where you thought it would be just  _peachy_  at the god-awful, ass-crack of early morning, heat sweltering darkness to actually go through with this. Only to want to pitch yourself off the nearest, tallest building when you realize that drunken three am you was a huge freaking  _idiot,_ with no self-preservation instincts to speak of and a penchant for emotional masochism. 

Though it would  _admittedly_  be kind of difficult to find a tall enough building considering where you’d ended up—stubbornly pacing a short distance along the most lengthy, empty stretch of desert road you’d seen in a while (a path that connects one small desert town, propped up in what feels like a barren wasteland of hot sand and minimal green, to another). 

You’re forced to use what remains of your dwindling will power to not just  _stare_  in horror at the rectangular, off-white building sliding in and out of your peripheral—sitting on the horizon like some sort of taunting, ghostly mirage. You swallow hard at the image, rubbing at the tiredness from your eyes with trembling fingers and a daunting ache that’s beginning to bloom more fully in your chest with each step.

You should just crawl back into the rundown old rental car like the coward you are, and then maybe stay there until you die for extra measure. It’d be better that way—especially when  _he_  finds out where exactly you’d taken your little impromptu trip. Because he would. They _all_  would, eventually. And you weren’t ready for the disappointed grunts and sharp frustrated scowls and pitying concerned looks you knew where waiting for you. Because you were usually good at following orders, but now you think you’ve finally begun to unravel in every way possible. 

You were just so tired and heavy and  _hurting_  all the time, and you _knew_  with every bit of your soul that this was it. Before you really, truly lose it. You have to see him—even just once. Even if it’ll only end up hurting you so much more than the hallow, haunting loneliness of the past year. 

And you know it will, and you know you’re  _selfish_  for this—considering the pain you were bound to bring to him in return with this half-baked, super stunt—but you’ve always been weak when it comes to him. So stupidly in love that it’s sometimes just downright embarrassing to think about. And he’d always been ready to risk it all for you—throw himself in the damn, sometimes not so metaphorical, fire if he had to, never questioning, always  _there_.

You’d be damned if you didn’t do the same for him.

So, essentially, you’ve now just decided to  _screw the rules_ —the orders to stay away for not only his sake, but yours to. You could do this. You’ve learned to swallow down the pain in order to function, courtesy of a strenuous vigilante life of your own. You’d just have to monitor your time and leave when you need too. Minimal contact, minimal pain. You could  _do_  this.

And with new confidence and a deep steadying breath, you pop the hood of the old green Ford and get down to business.

*************************************************************************************

It only takes you forty minutes to complete step one of poorly-conceived plan  _Mechanic Knight_  aka plan  _Screw It, Just Do It_.

….

Okay, so, you were never  _great_  with names. But you think he would appreciate the effort here at least. Or otherwise find it somewhat amusing enough to grace you with one of those suave, boyish grins of his. Those hard to come by, out of the blue ones that never fail to set your heart aflutter—like the frantic shake of a hummingbird’s wings caged just behind your ribs—and make you forget that there was once even any darkness in his eyes to begin with.

God, you missed his  _laugh_.

It had started to rain on your lone walk up the road, soaking partially through your clothes but drastically cooling down the thick, desert heat that presses over your skin like a heavy sweater—a light drizzle that suffered the possibility of getting worse, if the black clouds swirling overhead were anything to go by. 

You pause at the end of the driveway, clutching at the straps of your backpack and looking up the length of the cracked, black tarmac to study the front of the building. It’s stout and wide, a single structural unit in the middle of god-forsaken, sand dusted nowhere, with peeling paint and rusting metal detailing around a comically cliché red neon sign— _Union Auto Garage_ —bolted high above the open garage door. The garage door itself is freshly painted blue compared to the rest of the building, with six little square windows lined across it and a metal side door completely sealed shut to the right. 

It’s simple and charming and wholly unsuspecting—a perfect off-the-grid keep-away, the flashing neon letters prominent in the dwindling daylight bloated out by those forbidding, circling storm clouds.

You shake out your hands from their death grip on the straps of your bag, sighing in relief as blood rushes back into your stiff fingers. And then you’re wiping off any traces of grease layered in the creases of your palms along the edges of your shorts, smudging the grimy fluid out of sight and into the dark material as you begin the short, nerve frazzling walk up the garage’s drive. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been this anxiously, well,  _terrified_  in your young life by simply just walking, and the miserable tightness in your chest only makes it harder to breathe. You really  _are_  off your rocker for doing this, you think dejectedly, training your gaze on the open garage door and the shadowed interior of the building’s entrance—taking in the noticeable shapes of compact shelves and sturdy ceiling beams. 

But you were here. And it was already,  _kind of_  past the point of no return, especially considering the fast approaching reverb of deep, distinctly male, voices.

Well, there was no running now.

The first man to step out onto the tarmac—rolling a shiny, newly repaired red and chrome motorcycle along with him, and pausing to hover just on the threshold under the garage door—is lean but muscular, shaggy red hair tied back and stuffed under an all too familiar gray trucker cap. You can’t help but smile widely at the sight of him, a flood of relief surging through your veins. Looks like  _someone_  had a similar idea.

And he always did say that great minds think alike.

Roy is looking back over his shoulder at someone who’s still out of your sight, leaning forward heavily on the bike, hands gripping tightly to the handles. There’s a large, excited grin spread along his lips, in a way you hadn’t seen in a while—well, ever since  _it_ happened—all blinding white teeth and knowing secrecy. And it gifts you with a flurry of calming warmth, weightless in your chest, especially with the way the brightness in his green eyes cuts through the slowing, light rain. 

He’s dressed in jeans, brown work boots, and a simple red t-shirt to showcase the patchwork of both black and colourful ink wrapping around the expanse of his arms, black leather riding gloves already adorning his hands.

Roy tilts his head with that same smile, lifting a hand to give his mysterious companion a single finger gun. “Well, I hate to crash, cash, and dash, but I’ve got to get back to it. Thanks for your assistance, buddy. I thought I was a goner.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Those wait times are just killer, aren’t they?”

You can’t control the painful way the breath is punched out of your lungs when the second man, a six-foot muscular tank and about as huge as a fucking  _tree_ , ducks under the garage door and steps out into the light beside Roy, the deep Jersey ridden cadence of his voice cutting straight through to your poor, rattled core. 

Your brain skips offline for a fraction of a second, like a record might when caught on scratch or surface mark, immediately sputtering in dizzying circles to catch up to your suddenly trembling legs. You have to stop your hike halfway up the drive so you don’t just fall flat on your face and accidentally _re_ -break your chronically unlucky nose—rooted in place as you stare at him.

 _Jason_.

You were definitely  _not_ ready for this.

He’s smirking faintly— _humorously_  and cocky and just like you remember—gray-blue eyes gleaming in the little daylight that creeps through the rain clouds and highlights the tan of his skin until he just  _glows_. He’d grown out his hair a little, different from the more closely trimmed hairstyle you’re used to seeing, inky black hair starting to curl at the top, around his ears, and at the nape of his neck, the unmistakable single shock of white hair tangled into a mess of locks that fall over his brows. 

He’s wearing a stark, mechanic-blue jumpsuit layered in grime—the top half open, stripped off his body, and tied off around his waist—a black undershirt stretched across the relaxed, broad expanse of his chest and shoulders like a second skin.

It’s like a sobering slap to the face when you notice it though—the new way he’s carrying himself. All that life-long, built up tenseness, already so deeply ingrained in the very frame of his body in 24 short years—that familiar steadfast but defensively firm posturing of his that’s just…virtually  _evaporated_  from his being. You could see it clearly—even from where you stand. He doesn’t seem to be so weary anymore, so  _tired_.

He looked…. _good_.

And you can’t help but find yourself falling in love impossibly deeper.

Roy waves Jason off, rolling his eyes at the greatly missed edge of sarcasm bleeding through his old friend’s tone. “Seriously, man.” He insists eagerly, “I’d hate to miss my daughter’s birthday because of some stupid, old deathtrap.”

 _Birthday?_  You think in confusion, struggling to remember the current date through your tumbling emotional whiplash of the situation.  _Lian’s birthday still wasn’t for another_ — _oh, come on, Roy_.

 _You can lie better than that_.

Jason just shakes his head and wipes his equally grimy hands down with the small, not so white, rag in his grip, amused smile never leaving his face. “Drive safe, Mr. Harper.”

Roy winces at the formal title when Jason goes to check the time, glancing down at the simple silver watch hanging loosely around his left wrist—the flinch so fast that you would’ve missed it if you had not already looking so intently for his reaction. Your heart clenches in sympathy at the tiny somber hitch in his expression then, the downward dropping of his grin and furrowed eyebrows, and you take a step forward in concern without meaning too. 

He’s probably one of the only few people that had been missing him just as terribly as you have, and you can only imagine the flash of hurt he felt just then. Poor Roy manages to keep his grin wide and friendly despite that, though there’s a weaker vigour behind it now, eyes darting away from Jason’s face with palpable disappointment.

“Oh please, my friends call me Roy.” He declares as playfully as he can, moving to sling one leg over the leather seat so that he’s straddling the motorcycle—once he sees that the rain has finally ceased for now. Jason studies him for a moment longer with a look of uncertainty, the barest spark of something like  _frustration_  shadowed in his expression, before he’s shaking his head again as though trying to clear a passing fog over his mind.

Hope shoots through your veins like fizzing electricity—a livewire of excitement that sears you down to your bones.  _Your_  Jason was still undeniably in there, somewhere, despite  _everything_. Despite that unforeseen, supernatural element to a theoretically ‘home by dinner’ case, the angry dark magic that was mistakenly awakened, and the deadly, punishing curse thrust upon him—that only began to slowly kill him when he strayed too close to the people he deeply cares for—those he  _loves_. 

The desperation and pleading urgency for him to leave and gain safety through distance, and those stubborn, livid arguments of his to  _stay_  right where he belongs. The soul crushing decision of his loved ones behind his back—the reluctance and remorse and thatdamn, horrifying memory wiping, leaving most of his past intact but locking away all traces of his family and friends—of  _you_ —and then it was adding false memories to fill in the cracks, psychological suggestions to not go looking for any answers or to try and contact a made-up someone from his new life. 

All of this in order to keep him away and content, without any violent recourse or resistance. To save him and prolong his life, despite how  _furious_  you know he’ll be once he remembers (because _if_  is too hard a word to think about). Until you could figure out how to finally release him from this tightly binding, poisonous curse.

And here he is, still  _fighting_  somehow beneath the haze.

Jason’s eyebrow arches once he fully considers Roy’s words, “‘Ya move fast, don’t’cha?”

“And I’m not ashamed.” Roy counters back with another blinding grin. You snort at that, rather loudly and embarrassingly, and both men’s gazes slide to you in surprise. Which means now, you find yourself immediately wishing for the motorcycle to just do you a solid—by running you and your big mouth over. Roy works his mouth a few times without sound, having the decency to at least look a bit sheepish when he realizes you’ve caught him with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. 

You merely shrug and grace him with a helpless smile that works to relax your red-haired friend, if only slightly, his eyes flicking around the environment behind you for a moment—most likely searching for any signs of potential, incoming bats.

Jason doesn’t seem to notice the discreet look of understanding that passes between you and Roy as you step closer to the two of them, your heart leaping into your throat like a bouncing slinky with every step until you’re finally within arm’s reach. Jason is watching every move carefully— _attentively_ —his smirk falling and intense, blue-eyed stare shifting slowly over your form. 

There’s burning familiarity to the feeling that makes the back of your eyes sting with oncoming tears, which you hastily blink back in a panic, his eyebrows deeply furrowed again in thought. The look of confusion passes quickly though, arms crossing over his broad chest when finally he speaks.

“Hey, how can I help ‘ya this evenin’?” He smiles politely down at you, voice still deliciously husky.

You swallow down a potential sob at the lack of recognition in his friendly, uncharacteristically bright gaze, squaring your shoulders and mustering as much courage as you can.  _This is it_. Act cool, stay a stranger, watch the time.  _This is your chance_.

You had to admit, a large part of you was more than excited to be so close to him again, if only for a short while. Even though its kind of  _completely_  painful to no longer see that nearly shy fondness in his eyes—that all-encompassing warmth you had grown accustom to whenever he looked at you.

You shoot him back a flirty, casual smile with all the confidence you have left, hands falling to your hips as you jut out your chin and meet his gaze head-on. “Car trouble.” You tell him, deciding to get straight to the point. The corner of Jason’s mouth twitches and then lifts into an attractive, roguish smirk that makes you dizzy all over again.

“Good thing ‘yer in the right place.”

“Good thing.” You agree.

Roy awkwardly clears his throat to get your attention, shifting back to sit on the motorcycle seat more comfortably when your eyes reluctantly cut to him. He waves in greeting, a dorky wiggle of his fingers that makes you want to laugh, but you manage to fight it back by pressing your lips together tightly. His eyes sparkle with light-hearted humor when he catches the quick upward twitch of your mouth.

“So, uh, hi. How’s it going?” He inquires with a friendly smile, keeping his posture relaxed and attitude casual—an indifferently polite greeting to a stranger. Though his underlying question is easily reflected in the subtle flicker of concern in his eyes. Rough Translation:  _How are you handling all this?_  You return his wave with a lazy two fingered gesture, hoping he can read the silent reassurance in your expression.

“Fine, thank you.” You say just as politely, feeling Jason’s curious gaze trail back and forth between you both.  _He always was the intuitive one_. Roy nods in understanding, drumming his fingers along the handles of the motorcycle.

“Cool, cool.” He begins, eyes flicking to Jason briefly before returning to your face, clearly feeling the awkward silence that is quick to descend upon the three of you. “Nice…weather we’re having, huh?

The wea— _Really?_

You arch an eyebrow, pointedly glancing at the clouds still hanging in the sky. “If you like rain.”

Roy simply shrugs, tugging on the bill of his cap to fit it more snugly on his head, and then he jabs his thumb to gesture down the road—in the opposite direction you’d come from.

“True. Very, uh….so I’m going to just…”

“Of course.” You say, stepping back to sweep your hand in a grand motion as if to illustriously announce:  _be my guest_. “I won’t keep you from celebrating your daughter’s birthday.”

Roy blinks in confusion, “My…right!  _Yes_ , umm thanks. I better hit the road before I get completely distracted, huh? Make up for some lost time.” He jokes nervously, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. 

 _Nice recovery, buddy_. 

Jason’s towering figure tilts forward a bit to get a better look at Roy’s face, his eyes narrowed in slight suspicion. “Do ‘ya do that a lot?” He asks gruffly and with just a hint of playful banter, continuing to watch the way Roy looks to you for quick assistance. 

Having pity on him, you gently nudge Jason’s arm to reroute his current, avid attention more towards you instead. Although you can’t help but take the marginal opportunity to tease your red-haired friend just a little. It was only fair, after all.

“I think he does.” You lightly joke, voice low and hand cupped over your mouth as you make a show of leaning in to conspiratorially loud-whisper to Jason. Roy rolls his eyes at you and turns to start the motorcycle, the engine loudly rumbling to life after a few seconds.

“Ha!” He exclaims over the sound, “So funny, you tag-team comedians should have your own Vegas show!”

“Sounds exciting.” You deadpan, Jason snorting at the hilarious image in barely-concealed amusement. Roy winks at you, lifting his legs from the tarmac to rev the engine once, twice, and then he’s peeling off down the drive—taking a sharp turn onto the road that makes your stomach jump just from watching, before racing of into the distance. Until he’s nothing more than a ghostly, dark smudge on the horizon. 

Jason turns to look at you, eyebrows raised and clearly curious about the entire interaction that just took place, but he seems to decide not to question it. He shakes his head, fishing a set of keys out from his jumpsuit pocket instead.

“So. Car trouble, huh?” He asks with that same charming smile of his. He waves you to follow him into the building, and you find yourself having to jog lightly to catch up to his long strides.

“Yeah. It gave out on me down the road.” You tell him, looking around in interest at the clean lines and organized interior of the garage. 

It’s mostly spotless for an auto garage, save for some old and new oil stains pooled against the concrete floor, two awkwardly displaced cushioned desk chairs, a few weather-worn tires piled against the  _long_ , single metal table touching the right wall, and the scattering of shiny tools, manuals, and day old empty take out containers along its surface. There’s a set of tucked away rickety iron stairs in the back corner, that lead to an elevated half landing overlooking the expanse of the garage.

You can hear the shrill ring of phone—a sharp burst of sound that echoes briefly among the steel beams running across the high ceiling, and you think that there may be some sort of makeshift office up there. A mini fridge and three large, rolling mechanical shelves rest against the left wall, the red of the shelves deep and polished looking under the rows of fluorescent pot lights overhead. 

Overall, the inside was large enough to maybe fit four full-sized cars side by side, a huge floor parking lift situated near the front of the garage door, a handful of much smaller trolley jacks lined up under the metal table.  _He seems to be the only one working today_ , you observe eagerly once done with your brief examination of the space,  _probably for the best_.

Before long you notice that he’s leading you to the very back, pushing through another metal door that leads out to a smaller patch of tarmac at the back of the building. 

“I was hoping you’d be able to help me, uh,  _Jason_.” You continue, making sure to let him see the way you lean in to read the name on his tag. He twirls the ring of keys around his finger and smirks, nodding to where a big, blue and yellow vehicle waits.  _A tow truck_.

“I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Psst I'm on [Tumblr!](http://ultrakeystotheheartblog.tumblr.com/) Come say hi if you want, I write stuff and take requests when I can find the time ♥ I'll be posting things both there AND here, but updates and such might be slow going for a while. I hope you all enjoy regardless!]


	2. Slipping Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you all enjoy ♥
> 
> Translation: Satarma = Star
> 
> Warning: Pain train, here comes more angst! Also, there’s some heavy swearing and mentions of dying, but it’s my son Jason, so….expected.

Fifteen minutes later finds you back inside the garage just before a heavier rain begins to fall, standing self-consciously beside your newly retrieved Ford and shuffling from foot to foot as Jason pokes around under the front hood. The rain is pelting hard against the open garage door and tarmac outside, a cooling mist from the splashing water wafting into the open space and obscuring your visibility of the outside world. 

It almost feels as though you’ve been cut off from it somehow, trapped in a safer, little alternate dimension—far away from the torrent of real life and all of its possible, nightmarish tragedies.  _Your_ nightmare of a year in particular. You run your hand over the driver side door and try to ground yourself through the faint, warm sensation seeping from the green metal, staring at the tantalizing arch and flex of Jason’s toned back as he mutters away under his breath and expertly tinkers around the bolts and gears.

You really hope this doesn’t get awkward.

“So, what’s the verdict?” You ask slowly, swallowing down a sudden gasp when Jason’s head reappears over the hood to regard you with a furrowed brow and disbelieving expression. The blue-gray of his eyes is even more razor-sharp in the fluorescent light—a wintry, storming sky that racks your spine with pleasant shivers.

“Jesus, how ol’ is this car?” He inquires back in a more concerned sounding tone, running a hand through his hair despite the little coating of grime on his skin. You take a minute to try and remember the model.

“1987 I think. Why?”

Jason sighs, stooping to make sure the wedge-shaped, rubber blocks are firmly tucked behind the back wheels to keep the car from rolling. “Suspension might be shot to hell. I’m goin’ to have to take a closer look.” He briefly explains without looking at you, solely focused on turning to retrieve the trolley car jack he’d picked out earlier. He swings it around to fit under the back end of the car.

You nod in understanding, throwing up your hands towards him as you step back from the car. “That’s fine with me, you’re the professional here.”

“Well, as the agreed-upon professional, I’ve come to the vital conclusion that  _this_  is goin’ to take a while.” Jason grunts in good humor, pressing down hard on the jack to slowly lift the end of the car up. “Maybe an hour—dependin’ on how bad it is.”

He flashes you an easy smile, bending and reaching underneath to install a jack stand under a solid, structural piece of the car’s frame. You rock back on your heels and clear your throat, slipping your cell phone out from the back pocket of your shorts to check the time. Okay, you were doing well— _better_ , actually, than you thought you would. You could still hang around a little longer before the metaphorical shit meets the fan. You had time and everything is….everything is okay.  _For now_ , a voice whispers.

“Is it okay if I hang around?” You ask a little nervously, slipping your phone back into your pocket after a moment of hesitation. “I don’t really have anywhere else to be.”

Jason stills at once, his head snapping up to look at you with an expression of twisted uncertainty, curiosity, and surprise. His eyes narrow as they move over your face in what you can only discern as contemplation, and you will the squirming knots in your abdomen to untangle and take this nauseous, anxious feeling with them. 

Jason remains stoically silent when he averts his gaze and bends to remove the trolley jack, pacing around the car with a concentrated pinch to his features before repeating the process on the front end—snugly locking another jack stand into place to keep the car level. He deposits the trolley jack to the side of the car, rubbing at the stubble peppering his chin as he studies the length of the Ford with that same calculating, reserved gaze he had recently trained on you. Finally he speaks, eyes trailing back to where you stand.

“I wouldn’t mind the company.” He divulges quietly. The car is staged in the air at approximately waist height for him now, and he drops to one knee to get a better look at one of the front wheels before continuing, “It might get borin’ though, but it’s up to you.”

“I doubt it.” You promptly quip, relief settling into your chest like a feather-light touch. The nervous knots begin to unravel at the pretty smile Jason sends you over his shoulder.

He rocks the tire from side to side and then stands to jog across the room, rummaging through the mess on the metal table until he finds a tire iron. He retreats back to the car then with both the iron and an open tool box. Within a minute the tire is off and sitting beside him as he peers under the lip of the exposed wheel rim. 

 _He’s always been very good at this_ , you recall with a strange pang of sadness that you don’t quite understand,  _but it’s changed now_. It no longer seems like a survival technique, a need to occupy his always churning, thoughtful mind or angry, negative thoughts—taking something apart and putting it back together with a practised ease that calms him. No, it’s become different somehow—a need to fix things just because he can, just because it makes him… _happy_. 

So shouldn’t you be too? Overjoyed to see him so relaxed and at  _peace_  for once, regardless of the haunting memories that never seem to grant him rest?

You are,  _fuck_ , of course you are—happy to see him alive, to see him  _safe_ —happy to be around him again, watch him work so methodically, smile so openly, constantly,  _brightly_ , that it touches his eyes in a way you’ve seen so little of. Like a boy who never once had to lose his life to a madman. But there was still this part of you, underneath all the joy pulsating in your chest, which felt like you were… _mourning_. 

Maybe it was because you’d lost him in the process. Or maybe it was because you’ve never been very good at navigating complex, messy emotions. But all you know now…is that human feelings  _suck_.

You sigh and watch him hastily dig around in his chrome plated tool box, your eyes once again glued to the way his large form ripples with strength. You remember the way it felt to be able to touch him—the warmth of his raised, scarred skin, the thundering, steady beating of his wounded heart beneath your palms, the chiselled edges of his jaw, the roughness of his chapped lips at the tips of your fingers. 

And it’s just as easy to recall the way it felt to  _be_  touched by him—remembering how he looked down at you with that reserved softness in his steel eyes, still feeling his phantom touch press into your skin. Like the electricity in his fingers as they brushed so reverently across the plains of your body, following the path of your spine, smiles quiet in their sudden appearance but blinding in all their beautiful fervour, arms caging you in against him, his body curling around you until all the world is shut out but you and him. 

 _Together_  as it always should be, with nothing but a peaceful hush left in its place—sturdy and familiar and always welcoming—like a home.  _Your_  beautiful home. And you still ached to feel him in every way possible.

“Shoppin’?”

You jolt to sudden awareness at the laughter in his voice, eyes jumping to where Jason has paused in his work to look at you. He’s still down on one knee, a single eyebrow arched and arms resting over his propped up leg as he casually leans forward. You take in the smattering of mirth in his expression, his mouth quirked up into a playful half-grin that’s so contagious you find yourself unconsciously mimicking it. 

 _So much for not being awkward_. 

You hadn’t realized you’d been staring so intensely at him, and you can feel the uncomfortable way your face heats up at the embarrassment of having been caught.

“Admiring your work ethic.” You amend quickly, gesturing to the Ford with a flurry of panicked hand movements.

Jason simply inclines his head towards you with a deep chuckle, “I’m flattered.”

You roll your eyes at him, turning away to more closely inspect the garage once he returns to his work on the car. You wonder aimlessly towards the first thing that piques your interest, gaze scanning the contents of the metal table curiously. And then you see it, hidden partially beneath the take-out boxes and coils of colourful wire.  _A book_. 

The sight makes you grin, and you peek back at Jason to make sure he’s still focused on the task at hand (you’re relieved to see that he _is_ ), gently brushing the litter aside to study the unhindered cover in the light.

It’s a cheap, glossy paperback and obviously well-loved, judging by the worn edges and cracked spine, a dark front cover with a single woman’s profile—braided red hair, a pointed nose, and pale skin. The title is encased in a block of white and coloured red, scrawled in cursive below her:

 _Much Ado About Nothing_. 

You double-check the time as you transfer your phone to the front pocket of your bag, make note of the expected, tad-over dramatic reaction you’d been anticipating all day—the subtle beginnings of a frenzied storm brazenly listed on your lock screen (starting the count at three missed calls, one voicemail, and 4 unread texts all from a certain overly protective, and quite possibly overly  _irritated_ , bird)—and drop it next to the table, picking the book up to run your fingers over the raised letters of the title. 

You hum in delight at the familiar weight in your hands, plopping down into the nearest desk chair, book clutched securely in your lap.  _Oh Jay,_   _always the resident literature buff_.

It wouldn’t hurt to tease him just a little, would it?

You still had time.

You push yourself off from the table, propelling the chair across the short distance towards Jason, his head snapping up in surprise at the noisy, echoing clatter of oncoming wheels against the concrete floor. He’s twirling fast on his knee to find the source before you can even blink, expression vigilante-serious, deposited tire iron clutched in his hand and back ramrod straight like he’s ready to fight, and your pulse begins to practically  _jack-hammer_  in anticipation—the faintest glimmer of your Jason is kneeling before you. 

 _It seems some old reflexes never really leave you_ , you muse. 

You walk yourself to a slow stop a few feet away from him (as to not get accidentally whacked by the improvised metal weapon) and complete your journey with a carefree little spin, propping the book up for him to see when you’re facing him again.

“So, Shakespeare?” You inquire with a small smirk. He takes a quick, casual glance at the cover, no more than a few seconds, and his whole body seems to unwind in relief—posture slouching back into something more relaxed when he realizes that it’s just you. His eyes flick up to your face with an interested lift of his eyebrow.

“That a problem for ‘ya?”

“No, I just didn’t picture you as a classics kind of guy.” You lie smoothly, turning the book over to thumb through a few pages as you teasingly add, “Maybe more science-fiction or western.”

Jason laughs at the thought, “Well, people can be surprisin’ if you let ‘em.” 

His eyes fall again to the book in your lap before he turns back, abandoning the tire iron near its place beside the tool box. It’s quiet for a moment as you sit there in elation—having finally had the chance to hear him laugh again so freely, after  _months_  of sinking into the cresting depths of your own misery—and he returns to his calculated task, tugging with a firm pressure on the new mechanical pieces he’s installed to see if they’ll hold securely in place. And then he’s speaking as he leans back to admire his work.

“ _Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me_.” He recites softly from memory, the words tumbling from his mouth with an ease and desperate passion that catches you off guard.

In the silence that follows you recognize it as a line from the play you’re holding in your hands, his back still facing you, shoulders rigid with a tenseness you remember all too well—as though he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. You feel another pang of that strange, muddled sadness, mind unsure why you suddenly want to cry. But then you mull over the line again, taste the words on your tongue and let them sink into depths of your soul. 

It’s the  _words_. 

They feel like an unexpected hook to the inside of your guts, cruelly wedging deep and twisting, metal iron hot as it rips into you from bottom to top until there’s just so much  _pain_. He’s always been a fighter— _passionate_  about what he believes in, fiercely protective of those he loves—even to the point of destruction. 

It’s what makes him… _Jason_. What’s always made him your favorite Robin, despite possibly being a  _little_ bias on the matter. And you’d allowed it to be taken away from him—the  _choice_  to be who he  _is_. You wonder if he’s able to feel that, understand that something’s not quite right, somewhere deep inside himself.  _If he’s starting to wake_.

And for a moment, there’s nothing but pure terror.

You must have made a noise without realizing or shifted a little too loudly in the chair, because Jason stands and turns to look at you again, towering and hopelessly imposing as he stares down at you with concern. So you do what you always do when faced with uncertainty or anything slightly emotionally daunting— _you joke_  to loosen the tension. You take a deep breath and desperately shove away any more negative thoughts, grinning up at him with what you hope is a somewhat convincing show of delight. It seems to work, or at least he seems to let it go.

“Hmm so, you’re a total book nerd.” You deduce playfully, idly spinning the chair around in a slow, lazy circle.

“Sure.” He agrees without hesitation, momentary tension uncoiling throughout his shoulders. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he openly smiles. “Do ‘ya like to read?”

“I do. Poetry, mostly.”

Jason crosses his arms over his chest, eyes bright. “Oh, really?”

You nod eagerly and think for a moment, sifting through carefully remembered titles, rhythms, and lines of your favourite prose in search of something to fit the occasion—some way to communicate all that you can to him, have been  _wanting_  to tell him—feelings at last expressed in a language you and Jason have always been able to understand when it comes to one another. 

Because it’s hard to say things sometimes, to say what you mean, and easier to say them through the skilful, promising words of others who  _get it_. Even if it’s nearly impossible for him this time, for him to remember the magnitude of that intimacy—the importance of spoken words among actions, spaces for vulnerability and honest hearts to breathe between the tensions of everyday life. But, regardless, he needs to hear it, and you need to  _say it_ , if only to give yourself a fraction of peace in the hell you’ve endured for the past year. And like every time you’ve needed, the words find you easily.

“ _Absence is a house so transparent that I, lifeless, will see you, living_ —” You begin confidently, eyes tightly shut as you picture the line with the upmost clarity you’ve had in months.

“— _and if you suffer, my love, I will die again_.” Jason finishes for you, before you can even shape your mouth around the next word, and a violent shiver skips down your spine at the reverent hush that bleeds heavily into his tone. Your eyes fly open to stare up at him, mouth slack and body trembling as you shoot up from the chair. The book clatters to the concrete below when it slides from your lap, and you find him looming over you, suddenly and daringly close. You hadn’t even heard him  _move_.

Like a damn cat,  _you swear_.

He’s close enough that you can feel the rolling warmth of his body, see the faded freckles sprinkled across his nose, the thin scar under his eye, to reach out and lay your palm against his chest— _his heart_ —if you so dared. But you don’t. 

That’s a lover’s touch, and you were just a stranger to him. 

 _Right?_  

Because there’s something strange in his expression now, a twitch of his features, a dangerous hairline fracture in the mask he’s been forced to don, threatening to break apart at the slightest amount of pressure—looking as though he’s fighting off a wave of nausea with every breath. It’s a glitch that shouldn’t be possible,  _shouldn’t be happening_. Not if you want to keep him alive. 

So you swallow thickly, forcing yourself to look away from the quiet,  _desperate_ , intensity in his eyes. To not lean into the barely-there, feather light brush of his calloused fingers upon your elbow, touch dancing down to the back of your hand.  _No_. You do one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do. You take a measured step  _back_ , feeling the comforting warmth of his hand leave your skin, witness a flash of hurt in his gaze that twists the hook inside you incredibly deeper. 

And you speak to him, however lost he is in the dark trying so hard to drag himself out of the muck in his brain, the only why you know how. You recite a promise.

“ _So, I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache_.”

_I still love you. Please, understand._

You don’t look at him right away, focusing on the continuous torrent of rain outside, throat and eyes burning, too afraid to  _see_. But your eyes are always drawn to him no matter how hard you try to resist, and so you eventually peek, taking in the frustrated furrow of his eyebrows, his giant frame swaying in a way that worries you immensely—as though he could collapse at any moment. 

He’s still staring at you, steel gaze uncompromising and pointed in its fervour. And it’s the shrill ring of the phone, tucked away in the office loft above the garage, which breaks him from his swirling thoughts. He jumps slightly at the noise, shaking his head free of the confusing daze he’d accidentally slipped into, and then he glances up to locate the sound with a look of bewilderment, seeming hesitant about what his next move should be. Until he winces out of the blue, lifting a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose.

 _Fuck_.

You couldn’t be out of time already could you?

You weren’t ready to leave.

Jason blinks through the light, throbbing pain, eyes darting to gauge your emotional well being after  _whatever the hell that just was_ , throwing you a weak smile when he sees you’re already warily watching him. He opens his mouth but doesn’t seem to know what he can possibly say, his jaw snapping shut after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, lips pressed into a tight line as he stands rigidly still. And that’s strike two for your hope about no awkwardness. 

You can practically  _feel_ the way he’s reprimanding himself inside his mind, parts angry and disorientated, and understandably troubled. The smart thing to do now would be to leave, turn around and hightail it through the onslaught of rain without looking back. To simply become a strange fever vision that haunts him for a few days in the back of his mind, only to be forgotten in time like the ghost of waking dream.

But you hate to see him trapped in his mind like this, spiraling in distress and being so unkind to himself—especially when none of this is even his fault to begin with. So you gather all your courage again to make the first move, bending to retrieve his fallen book before smoothing out the cover with a gentle sweep of your fingers, thankful it survived its unceremonious dive to the concrete. 

You hold it out for him to take with a soft, reassuring smile—a peace offering to soothe all those flaring, unpleasant thoughts, to try and tell him that  _it’s alright_  ( _it’s all going to be okay, please just rest, be safe, wait for me, please_ ), to _show_  him he could never so easily scare you off—if at all.

Because you’re just as good at stubbornly standing your ground when the world is all but eager to take you apart piece by piece, until you’re nothing more than a jumbled up Jenga tower on the precise of destruction. It’s something you’d always admired about him and had most definitely picked up after all your time together. Jason’s searching gaze lingers on your face just a moment too long and a fraction too intense to be considered socially ‘polite’ (but when has that truly ever mattered to him?  _To you?_ ), before trailing the length of your arm to the book in your hand. His own hands clench and unclench at his sides as he thinks.

You’re unsure if he’ll actually take it, but he proves you wrong a second later when he reaches out to accept his book with an open hand. His smile isn’t as forced this time, and you can feel the way the tension in the air loosens its suffocating chokehold on the pair of you, draining from the room just as quickly as it came. You never  _could_  stay uncomfortable around each other for long, and as much of a relief as it is, it’s also rather… _satisfying_  to know that this aspect of your relationship hasn’t changed all that much.

Jason steps around you to gently toss the book to the seat of the chair, and you pretend not to notice the way his arm accidently brushes yours when you turn to curiously follow his movement. Or how nice it feels when the familiar heat of his skin slides against yours, how the both of you unconsciously lean into the innocent touch, as though tirelessly seeking something that up until now had only been unattainable. 

You suppose this is partly for your sanity, but of course, most importantly to prevent another unexpected crack in the magic keeping him from an untimely death. And yet your traitorous heart was at last becoming your greatest weakness, finding it harder to pull together enough resolve to leave with each passing moment you spend in his presence. You had expected this, honestly, though the danger of your current predicament isn’t lost on you. 

Jason doesn’t comment on the accidental arm brush, but you can see the way his smile grows more confident as he finally turns back to your waiting car, stooping to easily hoist the neglected tire in his arms and line it up against the rim to reattach it.

“Not that it’s any‘a my business—” He begins after a long pause of silence, already focusing intently on re-tightening the bolts along the wheel’s circular spindle. “—and you can tell me to fuck right off, but why are ‘ya all the way out here with a shitty, decade ol’ car? Runnin’ away from somethin’?”

Your answering laugh sounds hallow even to you.

“How’d you know that? I don’t even know what I’m doing here to be honest.”

“Just do.” He says lowly, sucking in a sharp breath at another flutter of pain before running a hand through the top of his hair. The action upsets the mess of curls there, leaving him beautifully dishevelled in the best of ways. You bite your lip to keep from making any sound and squeeze your hands into fists, feeling a phantom ache in your fingers, a blinding, hopeless  _want_  to tuck them into those thick curls and press the lines of your bodies desperately close. To just  _hold_  himone last time. 

And the reality that you can’t— _shouldn’t_ , for fear that you further harm the man you’ve come to fiercely love—shakes some much needed sense into you, breaks something in you that you never knew could be broken. It’s brutal and unforgiving, but entirely true, driving that damn hook right through to the other side of your body in one violent stab of anguish, a pain that reverberates to every nerve ending under your skin.

You should never have come.

Why did you— _oh, god, how much time did you have again?_

You know he’s expecting some sort of answer still, especially with the way he peeks at you over his shoulder when he begins to pack away the tools he no longer needs. So you retreat again into friendly banter, turning to wheel the chair and book back to its rightful place at the metal table—all the while trying to frantically come up with as vague a story as possible (and reasonable enough to avoid any further questions). Because there’s no point in completely hiding away the truth. 

He’s always seemed to know if you aren’t being wholly honest about something important. And you blame that entirely on both his freakish but intelligent perception, and all that dumb, bat detective training that he and all his hundred siblings endured. But you  _could_ be ambiguous about it in the right way. You’ve had to learn how to develop that particular survival skill when surrounded 24/7 by superheroes and vigilantes alike, those who practically  _bleed_  the tried-and-true concept of truth and justice (read: the freaking  _Justice League_ ).

“Wow, with skills like that, you should consider becoming some sort of a detective.” You tease coolly, back turned as you lay the book down on the table’s surface, surprised by the sheer calm you’re managing to portray while nearly losing your mind on the inside.

Jason outright snorts at your comment.

“When hell freezes over and drags my dead ass through the ice.” He roughly grumbles in return. Your eyebrows shoot up before you can compose yourself properly, a morbid fascination creeping into the back of your consciousness. This is the second, most solid glimpse you’ve caught of something fighting through the magical haze, a familiar dark and dramatized humor, and a flair in his deep tone that somehow stirs up a kaleidoscope of silvery, moon lit memories. 

They’re precious little recollections of everything  _good_ —the absurdly late night (and sometimes drunkenly silly) conversations with no endings and no beginnings, the rush of a motorcycle on endless open roads or stretches of quiet darkened streets, sweet rooftop rendezvous that only last until the gold of early morning light splashes across the blue-black sky like dripping paint—and a part of you anxiously questions just which Jason is slipping through to the forefront now, mask or not.

“Bad experience?”

It’s Jason’s turn to go silent for a moment. He’s restless as he searches for an appropriate answer, moving quickly to finish up his work on your car in the meantime—checking tire pressure and swiftly reversing the process at the beginning. He removes the jack stands holding up the old Ford in an efficient, ordered manner, and then repositions the trolley jack under the front and back ends to safely lower it back to the ground. He pauses then, gritting his teeth and lifting a hand to rub circles over his left temple.

“No. I just don’t see myself fittin’ into that kind’a world.” He settles on at last.

_If only you knew, Jay._

“That’s fair.” You agree half-heartedly, scooping up your bag from the concrete to take another quick look at the time on your phone.  _There’s never enough time_.

15 missed calls. 11 voicemails. 17 text messages.

Dick might just very well smite you out of existence at this point.

Though you suppose you should count yourself lucky as you scroll through the ridiculous mass of notifications left from one singular, familiar number—it seems the others haven’t quite caught up with your plan just yet. Or maybe that’s just what you foolishly  _hope_  is the case.

Jason always said you were a dreamer.

You heave an exhausted sigh and decide to bite the bullet; wondering if _this_ , knowingwhat fate awaits you when you leave this place, will at least grant you a little (and wholly welcome) peace of mind for the remainder of your journey. You keep your back turned and quickly play your voicemails before you can change your mind, pressing the phone tightly to your ear.

_First new message:_

**“Hey, it’s Dick. As in Dick Grayson? Your soon to be brother-in-law? You know…the one who explicitly told you more than once that you can always visit whenever you need help or someone to talk too? _Also_  the one you would never intentionally ignore multiple calls from because you love him and would never just sneak off without telling him. Call me back when you can.”**

_Second new message:_

**“Hey, me again. Dick Grayson. Sooo, truth time, but I may have accidentally—kind of totally on purpose—tried to ping your phone after seeing you’re not at home to, uhh, well, find out** _where_ **exactly it is you went. Though I see good ol’ Timbo has given you an upgrade. So, no harm done I guess, but, uh, please call me.”**

_Third new message:_

**“Should I be taking this personally? Please, call me back as soon as you get this, Satarma. I don’t think I can take worrying about you too.”**

_Fourth new message:_

**“I’ve decided to take this personally. Pick up, pick up, pick up!”**

_Fifth new message:_

**“Okay, just where the heck are you?! I’ve been trying to contact you for ages! _Answer your phone_.”**

_Sixth new message:_

**“I fucking swear, you and Roy are going to give me a hernia before I’m 30. Which as you know, isn’t that far away. Answer me before I have to do something drastic.”**

_Seventh new message:_

**“ _(Y/N)_. I can and will sick baby-bat on you. Don’t think I won’t.”**

_Eighth new message:_

**“You’ve forced my hand.”**

_Ninth new message:_

**“Please! Just talk into the—I will not—Damian, _come on_ —No—But, listen—I will not take part in this unbecoming state of panic, Richard. Calm yourself and  _wait_  for (L/N) to contact you—I AM CALM—that is not  _calm_  in the slight— _beeeep_.”**

_Tenth new message:_

**“Okay, so Damian refused to take part, but it was kind of a long shot anyway. _But_ , that still doesn’t change the fact that you need to call me back. Asap.  _So call me_.”**

_Eleventh new message:_

**“Alright, listen, I’ll cut the bullshit. We both know you know _I_  know where you are right now. I was raised to be a detective, and I’m good at what I do.”**

_Aw, shit_.

You hear Dick moving around restlessly on the other side, the clinks of dishes in a sink, the low murmur of conversation in the background— _a TV_ , you hope—and you can just picture him pacing the floor of his apartment, tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose.

**“So, I know you need to do this. Because you’ve been driving yourself halfway to insane with everything that’s been going on. I know and I _get it_ , I understand.”**

There’s rustling, a chair scrapping against tile, and you know he’s sitting himself down to keep from exploding with any anxious energy or pent up emotion. He goes silent for a moment, and when he finally speaks again its quiet and hesitant—so very different than his usual tone of voice.

**“There’s not a day where I don’t…where I don’t _miss_  him. I mean, Jay’s my little brother—how can I not? But please stay safe, Satarma, keep  _him_  safe. Then  _call me_  whenever you get back so I know you’re alive. Just call me and we can talk. And don’t you ever forget that you’re my family too. That you’ve always been family—from the first moment Little Wing smiled at you like nothing in the world could hurt him anymore. So, we need to we stick together like one, alright?”**

He pauses and exhales long and deep, an exasperated sigh so low you almost don’t catch it over the ambient, mechanical sounds of the garage and Jason’s ongoing handiwork.

**“Uh, okay, I’ve said my piece. I’ll, umm, talk to you soon.”**

_Oh, Dickie._

_I’m so sorry._

You lower the phone and shut your eyes against the strangled breath caught in your throat, his words stirring up something heavy and warm in your chest that makes it all the more harder to breathe with its intensity—awe-filled affection, fierce devotion,  _love_. A feeling you’ve almost begun to fear lately, so entangled with crippling moments of grieving and confusion, of  _hurt_ , that it’s become increasingly more complicated to separate the negative from the positive.

But it’s also a reminder.

That there’s always a little bit of hope when you need it most, no matter if you find it of your own violation or just simply need your eyes opened it. And yours just came in on the wings of hope personified— _a Robin_.

Because  _love_  as he’s reminded you, whether romantic or familial, is still worth it in the end—still capable of being precious and wonderful and so  _important_ —and gives you the strength to keep going forward in the bleakest of circumstances. But you can’t help the small trace of worry that haggardly waits in the back of your mind, a stifled dread that questions if Jason’s love will ever truly return the way you remember it now, or if he’ll even _want_  you when this is all over. For magic can be just as unpredictable as life.

Jason saunters around to the front of the car, hands braced on either side of the open hood, and he leans forward to examine the inner workings with a keen sweep of his gaze. “So?” He prompts rather bluntly, head tilted in your direction as he reaches in to clip a component back into place. “What’s ‘yer poison? Trouble at home…trouble at work….troubles of the heart?”

“I was engaged.” You blurt out without thinking, fumbling to stash your phone back into a pocket of your bag when the screen lights up with an incoming call.  _From Bruce_.  ** _Fuck_** _._

_Impeccable timing as always, Batman._

The echoing silence that follows just leaves you confused at first.  Until you see Jason freeze up, his gaze snapping up to look at you, and you wince accordingly at your mistake. His eyes are sharp enough to leave you exposed and chillingly vulnerable—to peel back your carefully constructed front and strip you down to the very white of your bones—his expression caught somewhere between a grimace, but eclipsed with sympathy.  _Too much truth,_  you reprimand yourself harshly, _think it through_.

You shake your head and hurriedly fumble to explain, “But he’s gone. And, god, I just… _miss_  him.”

You definitely don’t mean for your voice to break, eyes already hot with stinging tears, but you can’t seem to find it in you to care for the moment, not when he’s looking at you now with that timid sort of softness you’ve been longing for. Jason’s spine snaps straight in alarm though, rising to his full, mammoth height when he hears the tremble in your tone, looking at a loss as he scrambles for something to say.

“Shit, I’m…sorry. I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—“

“He’s not dead.” You gently interject, slinging your bag over your shoulder again. You try to smile in a reassuring way at him, only managing a sad little upturn of your lips as you drift closer towards the car. “It just kind of feels like he is, you know?”

Jason purses his lips when you duck your head to avoid any further eye contact, nodding slowly and thoughtfully as he considers what you’ve told him, before shutting the hood of the Ford with a firm  _slam_. He steps away to draw out a grimy rag from a pocket on the lower half of his coveralls, the one you remember him using outside the front of the garage, twisting the thick cloth around each of his fingers to soak up the smears of fresh oil canvassing his skin.

“….did he leave?”

You think you may have gotten whiplash with how fast your body reacts to the abrupt candour of his question, head briskly shooting up to squint at him. There’s a sharp wrench at the base of your neck, blood pounding heavily in your ears, and your mind rattles from the shock of it all, snagging on bits and pieces of frantic thoughts as it tries to make sense of what’s transpiring in real time.

God, were you  _that_ easy to read? Emotions so easy to pinpoint? Even when talking to someone who’s  _supposed_  to be a complete stranger to you? _No_ , you think grimly. You wouldn’t have survived this long disabling crime syndicates or protecting the lives of others on crime ridden streets if you were. Jason Todd is just very good at what he does. Most of it  _is_  that natural perception you’ve come to expect from him, a cleverness and ability to adapt already seeded in his soul and nurtured on the lowly streets of the Gotham Narrows when he was just a child—out of necessity when fighting for his  _own_  survival.

But a lot of it is dutifully trained too, learning to hone and perfect an inherent skill, like a solider first before a protégé or a  _son_  (though you’re glad that’s one thing that’s been shifting over the years, changing tides of perspectives and profoundly developing relationships, learning to rely on the heart instead of ruling with only the mind. It’s a change that gives them— _all of them_ —a second chance at real  _family_. The one thing they’ve always wanted. The one thing they’ve desperately  _needed_  to survive in this world). 

It’s been so ingrained in him, that at this point he sometimes doesn’t even realize he’s making use of it.  _Invasive detective thoughts_ , you’d joked once late a night, while lying in Jason’s arms as he brooded over a particularly troubling case. And _now_  you needed to come up with a mostly vague but innately true answer to his question, so you can avoid any further… _life-threatening_  lines of enquiry.

And hopefully it’s one that doesn’t spike a change in his demeanour again—or drive you right to the edge of that  _very_  explosive breakdown you feel stirring just behind the cage of your ribs.

 _Honestly though. Fuck that dumb, bat detective training_.

You shift your weight to shoulder your bag more easily, fingers idly moving to twist the simple silver band on your ring finger, three tiny blood-red rubies embedded into the metal— _Jason’s_ colour. It’s so simple in its design that nobody ever realizes it’s an engagement ring, but even though it’s non-descript enough to keep any prying enemies out of your business, it holds more meaning than any diamond ever could. Because he’d made it himself. 

The silver piece had been carefully cut out and melted from a plated gauntlet attached to your very first suit—a clunky, ill-fitted prototype you want to forget in the deepest pits of regret. It was the one you’d been wearing when you first met him out on the streets of  _your_  home turf, a memorable, embarrassing moment of epic proportions (like almost slipping to your death off the side of a roof because you got spooked by a fucking  _pigeon_ ) that he likes to recall with choking fits of restrained laughter. Which naturally makes you want to punch his mouth—but  _lovingly_ , of course. An exhilarating reminder of how it all began.

The rubies came from the shiny, golden watch Bruce had gifted him so many years ago, popped from the rim surrounding the clock face with the tip of levelled switchblade. It was the very same one he’d worn as a good luck charm on your first date, and then the anniversaries and birthdays and holiday celebrations that logically followed. A sweet reminder of the larger, more significant, treasured moments in between. Silver and red bonded together out of love, a unified promise for an adventurous and passionate future to come—a future  _together_. One you’re still longing to see.

You bite the inside of your cheek, throat constricting as you gently drag the tip of your finger over the cool, smooth surface of each ruby, with a reverence you can’t as easily hide from him.  “It’s been about a year.” You tiredly admit, staring off into the rain with glossy eyes as you relive those haunting, garbled visions of cherished ghosts. “And there’s a chance that he’ll never—” Your breath hitches with a quiet sob you instantly try to squash. “I don’t know if he’s ever coming back.”

His eyes fall to your hand, following the movement as you continue to spin the ring with a faraway look in your eyes. “I don’t know if it’ll mean much.” He tells you, stepping closer with a heated gaze that levels intently on the side of your face until it  _burns_ , “But fer what it’s worth…. _I’m sorry_.”

Your lashes are brimming with tears when you turn to him, still managing to smile—even through the pain.

“It’s worth more than you know.”

And then you finally break down.

“ _Hey_ , none of that. It’ll all turn out okay, y’know?” Jason urges, fiercely patting down the legs of his coveralls. He’s obviously flustered as he searches through his pockets to fish out a wad of crumpled Kleenex, moving to lean over you and press them into your shaking hands. “Just wait n’ see.” He mutters, gracing you with an encouraging, but fleeting, smile that works to somewhat console you, his eyes darting worriedly over your wet cheeks.

He encases one of his own hands over yours, helping to keep them steady as you take a shuddering, sob-choked breath. You stare down through blurry eyes to silently marvel at the sheer size of his hand as it all but engulfs yours—reliving the joy of once again feeling his sun-kissed body heat, of the palpable electric touch that you’ve missed prickling your skin and singing in your blood. 

His calloused fingers fold over your knuckles, sliding to interlace them with yours, palm to the back of your hand, his other hand lifting to hesitantly curl behind the back of your head. Up close like this he smells of smoke, something burnt like engine oil, printed books, cool mint, and citrus shampoo—all familiar scents that bring you long-forgotten peace.

You look up at him with slowing, hiccuping breaths when he soothes his thumb over your skin in a display of comfort, finding his face hauntingly close and full lips slightly parted—and you decide that right now is the safest and calmest you’ve felt in the longest while, like passing through a dark and narrow tunnel into the blinding iridescence of open day. 

He holds your surprised gaze with a steady wonder in his eyes, the glint in them confusingly forlorn and wonderfully warm. But the connection is only brief, cruelly broken when his head jerks down in an abrupt motion. His jaw is clenched as he pushes a strained noise up through his throat, clapping a palm across his forehead which is beginning to glisten with sweat.

“Jason?” You whisper worriedly.

He breathes in deeply through his nose; eyes clenched shut as he tries to shake away the heaviness in his head.

 _Time is finally up_.

“Do I— _fuck_ —do I know ‘ya?” He finally asks, voice sounding terribly ragged.  _Shit-shit-shit- **Time is definitely up**_. You sniffle and crush the gifted tissues in your fist, slipping free from his entangled grip to gently push him back with a hand to his chest. He staggers backwards in a daze, hand falling limply from the back of your head.

“ _No_ , I think I’d remember meeting someone like you, Jason.” You say with a soft smile. The blatant, necessary lie tastes like ash in your mouth. But then you hesitate as you turn to the waiting Ford, breathing deeply to steel yourself and ask the one question you’ve been desperately wanting an answer to for months. It’s your last chance before you have to slip into that old car and leave him here once again,  _alone_ , in some backwater place in the middle of nowhere—unaware and safely asleep beneath the magic, but more vulnerable to his enemies if they were to ever find him.

You hate the very thought of it.

“So, what about you?”

“What ‘bout me?” Jason says gruffly, blinking fast in bewilderment as his fingers press to his forehead.

“Are you happy?”

“…strange question to ask.”

“Humour me,  _please_.”

Jason drops his hand, head lifting to fix you with one of those intense, searching looks of his, the kind that never fails to set your body aflame. “I like to believe I am.” He confesses slowly.

“Good. That’s—” You swallow heavily at the swell of emotion that crashes over you, “—that’s good.”  You twist to get at the zipper of your bag, wrenching it open to dig around in the depths of the rain lined fabric in search of your wallet.  “So, uh, are you done? How much do I owe you?”

“Uh, yeah, I…” Jason winces for a second time, looking back at your car to trace its stature with a squinted gaze—as if he just realized  _why_  it is that you’re both still standing here. He shakes his head, tugging out the Ford’s keys from another low pocket on his leg, and dangles the crowded ring of colourful key chains and metal in front of you with a kind smile. 

You close your hand around the bulk of it and he lets the ring fall gracefully from his fingers before continuing, “$500 should be fine. Need any help findin’ the highway?”

“I’m alright.” You assure him quickly, car keys hanging from one finger as you hold out a bundle of bills to cover the charge. He takes them with a nod and hastily stuffs them into another pocket of his coveralls, scratching at the back of his neck as you hesitate again, rooted to the spot and looking a little lost about what to do next.  You know what you  _should_  do. But there’s also something else you want to accomplish before the inevitable. So, you give into the urge to hear him laugh just one more time, wiggling your fingers into the side pocket of your bag to pluck out the half-eaten roll of hard candies stashed there. 

He pretends to not be entertained by your brand of humor, even after  _years_ of being subjected to your never-ending stream of ‘bullshit’ ( _his words_ , though you think Jason’s just pouty that you and Dick get along so well in that regard, courtesy of spending hours while on missions trading puns and quips over comms), but you know otherwise. You know  _him_ , better than you think he knows himself sometimes. And you can always get him to crack a smile on the worst of days—you just have to put your mind to it.

“Thank you for all your help, Jason.” You start casually, peeling back the torn paper to free one of the candies and watch it drop into the palm of your hand.  “You’re a real… _life saver_.” You emphasize with a small grin, popping the cherry red ring into your mouth.

Jason stills and an eyebrow shoots up, his gaze glinting in amusement as it drops to take in the object in your grip. You can see the moment when your words connect in his mind, a slow smirk curling his lips.

“Did ‘ya just compare me to a candy?” Jason demands playfully. You tap the open end of the roll against your lips, watching the way he relaxes and leans casually back against the door of your car.

“And if I did, are you gonna do anything about it?” You challenge with a proud puff of your chest, the delicious candy still sitting on your tongue.

His nose scrunches adorably, “Charge ‘ya extra fer emotional damages.”

“Oh, come on,  _Drama Queen_ , it wasn’t that bad.” You tease, waving the roll pointedly in his direction before pocketing it. “Besides, I think it’s kind of sweet, don’t you?”

Jason throws his head back and laughs, the sound booming and deep and unrestrained in its power—a beautiful, wild noise that rings rampant in your ears. “‘Yer terrible.” He huffs out when he’s able to breathe somewhat normally again, eyes so very bright with emotion when they focus on you.

“But it made you laugh.” You point out breathlessly, and Jason can’t help but chuckle at your easy, delighted reply. He steps away from the car door when you stride forwards, watching as you smoothly tug it open and toss your bag into the passenger seat, before you finally slip behind the wheel with a hesitant smile. He quickly catches the top of the door’s frame as you lean out to shut it, ducking down to peer at you when you freeze with your fingers curled around the handle and look up at him with a startled expression.

“Drive safe, (Y/N).” He mutters kindly, tone resonating with an underlying fondness that makes your face hot, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion when he winks at you—so quick you’re sure you’ve just imagined it. And then his face lights up as he teases you back, “And no more breakin’ down in the middle of nowhere again, eh?”

“No promises.” You remark jokingly, failing to hide the laughter fizzing in your chest when he rolls his eyes and releases his grip on the door, letting you firmly wrench it closed. 

You swing the car keys up into your palm and carefully click one of the copies into the ignition, listening to the engine of the car sputter once and quick as it comes to life, before it falls into a welcome, purring silence that impresses you—considering how old and unkempt the car is as a cheap rental. You wave to him through the poorly tinted window, pleasantly surprised when he waves back with that charming smirk you can never get enough of.

At last, you pull out of the garage with a heavy heart into the unrelenting flow of rain, large droplets pelting against the windshield with a vengeance, and you sneak one last glance at him in the side mirror. His figure grows smaller as you ease down the driveway, like a tunneling light in the distance, before you lose sight of him entirely and pick up speed when you turn onto the open road.  

And it isn’t until you’re barreling down the highway 20 minutes later that you realize something rather important.

You’d never told him your name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Psst I'm on [Tumblr!](http://ultrakeystotheheartblog.tumblr.com/) Come say hi if you want, I write stuff and take requests when I can find the time ♥ I'll be posting things both there AND here, but updates and such might be slow going for a while. I hope you all enjoy regardless!]


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